


I'm Bananas for You, Baby

by Caitybug



Series: Unsexy Saturday [2]
Category: Carry On Series - Rainbow Rowell, Simon Snow & Related Fandoms
Genre: Baz is a Mess, Bickering, Cockblocking, Fluff, Interrupted Sex, Leg Cramps, M/M, a vacuum that goes by many names, bananas would help with that, but make it sunday, cockblocking snowbaz, silliness, unsexy saturday
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-31
Updated: 2021-01-31
Packaged: 2021-03-17 12:22:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,647
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29100231
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Caitybug/pseuds/Caitybug
Summary: Baz and Simon are desperate to let go, to have sex.But, unfortunately, this is unsexy Saturday- and it never goes the way they want it to.
Relationships: Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch/Simon Snow
Series: Unsexy Saturday [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2134035
Comments: 13
Kudos: 63





	I'm Bananas for You, Baby

**Author's Note:**

  * For [thehoneyedhufflepuff (The_Honeyed_Hufflepuff)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Honeyed_Hufflepuff/gifts).



> Happy birthday [Ash!!](http://tumblr.com/blog/thehoneyedhufflepuff) I hope this silly fic gives you something to laugh about today. (No Roombas Were Harmed In The Making Of This Fic.)
> 
> Happy Birthday, Lovely! May this year be the best of them yet.
> 
> Special thanks to [Sconey](http://tumblr.com/blog/scone-lover), and [Liz](http://tumblr.com/blog/foolofabookwyrm) for looking this over for me!

Teeth hitting teeth, desperate for more; hands on skin, tongues tasting each other.

_God, I’ve wanted this for so long._

( _Needed_ this.)

Simon slips his shirt over his head, revealing constellations worth of freckles—ready to be explored, to tell a story. We step further into the room and he closes the door behind him with his foot. It doesn’t latch, not all the way—but we live alone. It doesn’t matter. Let the whole house hear us. What’s a few moans overheard by kitchen appliances? 

Our sofa won’t judge us. (It’s _seen_ more than it’s about to hear.)

“Baz,” Simon whispers in my ear, hands moving to the edge of my trousers. “Can I–”

I nod, a touch overzealous and desperate for us to get on with it. 

He kisses my neck, my chest, my navel. His hands are unbuttoning me, unzipping my flies. 

(It’s _heaven_.)

He’s on his knees, slowly pulling my trousers down, dragging my pants along with them. He trails his lips down my thigh, following the path as he removes my clothes, dropping them to the floor. 

I step out, letting him throw them to the side. He stands up, only to push me down on the bed. I’d be upset—say he needed to be careful of the bed frame (it cost over 900 pounds) but then he’s over me, eyes filled with darkness and arousal.

(It’s hard to think of _anything_ when he’s looking at me like that.)

“Simon,” I mumble. (It comes out as a beg.) (A plea for mercy.) 

He hums in acknowledgement, wrapping his hand around me, giving me the friction I desperately need. 

Everything starts to move faster. I can’t tell if it’s _actually_ happening this quickly, or if it’s my brain shutting off, losing track of time as I’m in bed with Simon. 

Both of us are too eager to drag it along, to make a show of it. (There’ll be time for that later.) (I want to make Simon _beg_. To bring him to the edge—only to pull back.)

He says I’ll be the death of him one of these days.

But with him above me, kissing me deeply—the taste of me on his tongue—I can’t be bothered. 

I feel his hip against mine and he moves against me. My eyes close and my head rolls back, letting the motions take me closer and closer.

“Ow, fuck,” he mutters, stilling himself. It’s jarring—both because of the lack of movement _and_ the obvious pain he’s in. “Fuck, fuck, _fuck._ ”

I open my eyes, watching as Simon pulls back, rubbing at his leg. His eyes are scrunched up in pain and he’s breathing through his teeth.

“What’s wrong?” I ask, sitting up to examine him. His leg looks fine. 

“Cramp,” he says through a grimace. 

I let out a breath. “I told you that you should be eating more bananas, Snow.”

“They went rotten,” he mutters.

“One brown freckle hardly makes a banana _rotten_.”

He rubs at his leg some more, trying to push through the pain. I take mercy on him after a moment, knowing that if I want things to be _taken care of_ , per se, that I’ll have to help him through this. 

I rub at his leg for a moment, feeling him begin to calm down, flexing and unflexing the muscle.

“Thanks,” he mutters. 

I hum in response. “Otherwise I’d never hear the end of it.” I let my hands stop rubbing the cramp, and instead let my fingers trace up the side of his thigh, stopping at his hip. “Now, can we get on with it?” I mean to say it softly, a murmur of my desperation. Unfortunately it comes out a bit more impatient, with too much want and need. 

He smirks like he’s gearing up to fight me. His chin’s jutted forward, and his arms grab me by the shoulders and push me back down on the bed.

It doesn’t take us long to end up where we were before. I’m above him this time, letting myself tease him, pulling his pleasure from him slowly. (It’s what he deserves for the fucking leg cramp.)

My mouth is on his neck, pulling the blood to the surface. (I can nearly taste it.) I lick up to his jaw, letting the heavy breaths he’s releasing hit my cheek.

I pull back, ready to ask him if he wants me to—

Something in the background crashes and I hear the door slam open.

Years of living with Penelope Bunce as Simon’s roommate come flooding back into my brain and I jump off, trying to quickly cover myself.

My heart’s beating quickly. Light from the hall trickles in, washing over Simon, who’s leaning up on his elbows, squinting against the brightness.

“Wha–” he says, brain clearly trying to catch up.

I frown, confused at the empty door frame. I walk closer to the door, wrapping the sheet around my waist, waiting for someone to enter. 

That’s when I hear a bang against the wall near Simon.

“What the bloody fuck–” he murmurs, turning to look at the side of the bed. 

If I weren’t so shocked by the intrusion, I could appreciate how his bare arse looks.

(Good, as always.)

“Oh no, it’s Geronimo,” he coos, sitting up and leaning over. “He got stuck.”

“Who the absolute _fuck_ is Ghirabaldi?” I sneer, wrapping the sheet tighter. 

I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror and don’t even try to soothe my expression. (I look mad.) (Like a bloody banshee of the night.) (Hair sticking up in ways I’d never let the public see. A bite on my shoulder where Simon declared earlier he wanted to _leave_ a _mark_.) 

I pull the sheet up higher, realizing that a pit of hair below my waist is showing.

I’m not sure who this _Gazpacho_ is, but I don’t need them seeing _anything_ below my waist.

Simon sits up, holding a Roomba in the air.

I nearly drop my sheet in exasperation. “What the fuck is that thing doing in here?”

Simon shrugs, putting the annular robot back down on the floor. It starts to move along the carpet, freed from the prison it was held in. (The space between Simon’s side table and the wall. A wicked place to be in for a floor vacuum.) 

“Must have forgotten to turn it off when we got home.” He tilts his neck from side to side, letting it crack. “In our…” he pauses, looking at me with half lidded eyes—the words _“let’s try again”_ pasted clearly across his forehead. “Haste.”

I roll my eyes. “Moment’s over, Snow.” I pick up my sheet so as to not trip and stomp out of the room. “You can have fun with Garbanzo instead.”

He stammers, following me down the hallway. Trying to correct the name. (“It’s _Geronimo_ , Baz.”) 

“Name it fucking _Orville_ , for all I care, Snow,” I huff, walking into the kitchen. 

I pull a glass from the cupboard, turning to grab the wine bottle, only to see Simon standing completely starkers (still half-hard) in the entry to our kitchen.

“I mean–” he says, clearly pondering something I’ve said. “Orville isn’t a _bad_ name per se.”

“Whose side are you on?” I ask, removing the cork from the bottle and pouring myself a glass. (I’ll need two at this rate.) “Because last time I checked it was _me_ you were begging for—not the fucking vacuum.”

Simon has the nerve to laugh, and I feel him come closer, putting an arm around my waist, his bare stomach against my hip. He’s facing me and I’m looking straight at the cupboard door. (I will not lose.)

He kisses my shoulder. “Love–”

“Don’t _Love_ me.”

“Well I _do_ ,” he responds, ignoring the sentiment of my statement. “I love you a lot.”

I roll my eyes.

“I turned off Orville,” he murmurs. (Fuck—guess _that_ name’s here to stay now, isn’t it?) “So can we _please_ get back to what we started.” His hand trails along my torso, soft and light. I finish my glass, trying to make it seem like I’m not hard under this sheet.

When I place the cup down, he grabs my hips and pulls me flush to him, letting the sheet fall to the floor. 

He reaches up to kiss me and I stop him, not letting his lips make their destination.

He frowns, confused.

“Only once you’ve had a banana,” I smirk.

He groans. “Please, can’t that wait until _later_?”

I shake my head stepping through the doorway. “Banana or nothing, Simon. I will not let another orgasm be pulled from my grasp due to a _leg cramp_.”

I barely make it out of the living room before he’s standing in front of me, banana in hand and a wicked grin on his face.

(This can’t be good.)

He peels the banana open. I frown, not sure why I have to watch this part. (Is he trying to prove a point?)

He opens his mouth and slowly puts the banana on his tongue.

I only manage to catch on when it’s too late—when the banana is hitting the back of his throat and he chokes on it.

“Crowley, Snow.” I walk past him, leaving him with an uneaten banana in his hand, bent over and coughing a lung out. “Have some decency.”

“I thought,” he says through wheezes, “it would be sexy.”

Before entering our bedroom I turn to him and say, “Does it feel sexy, Snow?”

He winces and shakes his head.

I nod. “Hurry up now, there are other things for you to choke on tonight.”

And I close the door, letting it _latch_ completely. (I trust Snow with many things, but not the fucking Roomba.) 

It takes Snow another ten minutes before he’s done with the banana.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks so much for reading!!
> 
> Feel free to check me out on [Tumblr!](http://tumblr.com/blog/caitybuglove23)


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